


the lucky ones

by effie214



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effie214/pseuds/effie214
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are the lucky ones. As requested on Tumblr; prompt: babyfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the lucky ones

They start trying three years in, and at first it’s fun — it always is — but the months fly disinterestedly by and bring with them only disappointment and what feels like a condemnation: not pregnant.

He holds her as she cries, and he says he understands, but she’s quite sure he doesn’t. This is something she’s supposed to do; the only thing that’s ever been expected of her that she actually sits in agreement with. And this is something she wants to do; for him, for her, for them — a continuation of what started in a reading room in Cardiff, a legacy so much more important than film or BBC Archives. 

She’s always been the gregarious, outgoing one, but this dims her. She feels leaden, weighted. It slowly seeps into her, a desire that’s becoming a demand and threatening to take over her life. It hurts to do the simplest things; she seriously considers switching makeup artists to an unattached gay man because her own talks endlessly about how her daughter is starting school soon and she can’t believe this many years have flown by so quickly. She lets Matt do the shopping because she can’t handle the screaming children — not because they annoy her in any way, but because the possibility she’ll never know that sound is turning into a probability.

They fight, too, which shakes her even more, because they so rarely do. But the frustration echoes off the ceiling and reverberates in her heart, and she wants this so much for him that the unspeakable question eventually tries to come out of her mouth.

He catches her as she falls and takes her tightly in his protective arms, holding her together at the exact moment she feels like she’s finally going to fly apart. “Never,” he whispers vehemently. “Don’t you ever say that, Karen.” He leans back and bends his knees to catch her gaze. “Don’t you ever think that.”

She tries not to. She tries to keep her chin up, keep that famous straight back; keep calm and carry on. But it’s unavoidable, and she feels like she’s on a constant mountain climb, and some days it hurts to put one foot in front of the other.

She’s never been told no before, especially by her body. Hell, bowling somehow came easily. But this is unreachable, and there is a devastating amount of guilt and failure that wraps itself around her. It makes it hard to see past the end of an hour, let alone a day, and forget years of adoption paperwork.

It’s the hope that hurts the most, though. They see doctor after doctor, take shot after shot, and it’s all for naught. She’s finally facing defeat, for the first time wanting something she just can’t have. She claws desperately at it until the bin fills up with more negative pregnancy tests, and as the latest one clatters into the rubbish beside her, she looks up and stares at her exhausted and unidentifiable visage in the bathroom mirror and cries the final tears, whispering ‘no more, no more’ as they land with finality on the marble countertop.

It is the end.

She is empty, but she is free, and she finally says goodbye.

They try to move forward, but it’s questionable as to whether or not they move on. She joins a new ITV show and is a bridesmaid in Arthur’s wedding, where she laughs unencumbered for the first time in ages when Matt just can’t stop making ridiculous faces even as the vows are exchanged, and there is a moment as they’re recessing down the aisle where she wonders if they’ll ever actually get around to doing the paperwork themselves. 

The photographer takes a picture of Matt and Karen dancing at the reception, her in a stunning navy blue number and him in his tux — minus the jacket, but of course with the braces — and the look on his face, so utterly open and in love, even after everything, soothes her fractured soul as it hangs on the refrigerator; it carries her on the days when she feels like she can’t walk - because they still happen, and she senses they always will.

They travel and finally get to experience places they’d visited before but never really got to see because they were working. They explore the walled city of Dubrovnik, have lunch near the harbor. They spend a week in Provence and then try a dude ranch in Arizona. That lasts two days until he tires of horseback riding and checks them into a nearby spa.

He pulls her into his lap and wraps them in a heavy wool afghan and they stare at the desert sky, so like that in Monument Valley, and she cranes her neck to kiss the underside of his chin. “I love you, you know.”

He nuzzles behind her ear. “I know. Every time I look at you, I know.”

She leans back, and she is happy.

She is whole.

And then, as everything else in their lives together has been, there is an unexpected beginning.

She thinks she has food poisoning at first — why on Earth she let him try making Spanish food at home is something she’ll never understand — and then she wonders if it’s not a stomach bug. Ginger ale and Saltines don’t help, and she finally goes to her doctor.

She sees stars not unlike the ones they put around Amelia — not unlike the sunbursts she saw when Matt first kissed her — when the bloodwork comes back and says the impossible.

They tell her it’s a miracle, that perhaps her letting go was what ended up bringing it to her, but they wand her at the ultrasound, and she hears the strong, steady heartbeat of her child — their child — and she bursts into tears again, and this time she welcomes the burn, for they are ecstatic in their gratitude and relief.

Matt’s late to the appointment, straight from set and still in costume, and rushes in like an uncoordinated giraffe just as the sound waves fill the room, and he slides to an impacting stop, shoulder banging into the doorjamb. They just stare at each other for a moment and then he’s by her side, whispering things she can’t understand through his tears against the hair he loves so much, and then they both gaze at the screen until the technician’s assistant gently tells them they need it for the next patient.

She dares say nothing for fear of jinxing it, and lives in such fear that the phone will ring and a gentle voice will tell them they were wrong. She counts the minutes with breaths and tries not to settle into anything. She doesn’t start looking at prams, doesn’t start buying baby clothes, tries not to think of the being growing inside of her, because as quickly as this was given to her, it could be just as easily taken away. She refuses to think about whether the child will be ginger and have its father’s expressive eyes, and “What To Expect When You’re Expecting” remains unopened on her nightstand.

She questions all the time; why now? What if this was not a gift but an accident; what if this was never meant to happen and all the lessons and definitions were in the struggle? Was it okay that she had finally, after so much fighting, felt so complete before this? Did it means less that she felt no different now, after this had happened?

Was she less of who she was because she didn’t know who was the true Karen Gillan — the woman who had to fight or the woman who was living her dream?

They pass the twelve week mark and Matt breathes a sigh of relief, but she still feels the tension in every bone in her body. Her thin frame has started to change, and there is a noticeable rounding to her already “moonish” face (something Matt doesn’t mention, however, because the hormones are kicking in.) She relaxes only when Matt kisses her goodbye and hello and then kisses her stomach in the same manner. 

She crosses each day off the calendar as a victory, and soon she’s twenty-eight weeks and can’t really hide it anymore, and she walks into her producer’s office before the next series starts and tells him she’ll be needing maternity leave.

She still doesn’t let anyone plan a baby shower or starts looking for pediatricians, but she hugs Matt as tightly as she dares when he brings home a TARDIS-clad onesie, and she feels the hope that had receded so long ago start to warm her in as the autumn months arrive.

They’re eating breakfast one day when she feels the baby kick, and it’s such a surprise that she drops her fork with a clatter to their dining table. Matt rushes to her and she pulls his hand to her burgeoning stomach, and the baby moves again. There is such wonder in Matt’s eyes that it brings tears to her own, and as they fall, the dream becomes a reality.

She still asks a thousand questions at every OB visit, doubly so in the later weeks once she’s actually read some of the baby books. She’s sure she must seem like a madwoman, but her doctor just pats her hand gently and tells her she’s perfectly normal. It’s not a soothing thing for Karen, though; instead, it’s a celebratory statement — an edict for her to not only live this but enjoy it.

They reveal the pregnancy inadvertently; the paparazzi snaps a picture of them heading to their first birthing class, which they of course laugh through because Matt can’t take anything seriously.

And yet she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Her Twitter feed explodes with well wishes and entertainment news reports on the new member of the “Doctor Who” family, but they never address it publicly. This is something for them, for their loved ones, though she prints every kind message they receive and put in the baby book she’s started.

She goes into early labor two days before Christmas, and nearly breaks Matt’s fingers as the contractions roll through her. He rubs her back and then leaves her be when she snaps at him, kissing away her apologies after the pain subsides. They make it to the hospital, decorated in celebration for another birth, but she lets everything surround her as though everything is converging in her honor.

Matt snaps pictures of everything, from her in the hospital gown to the nurse as she starts Karen’s IVs, but drops the camera and whispers meaningful nonsense to her as the contractions grow stronger and closer together. He holds her just like he had in their sitting room so many months and heartbreaks before, and she can’t imagine doing this with anybody else by her side. 

She progresses so quickly that their birthing plan goes out the window. She has to laugh, because what of her existence since her early twenties has gone according to plan? And then there is one more roll of thunderous pain, the strength of a push she didn’t think she had, and then the wail she never thought she’d hear.

Her daughter is placed on her chest, but she can’t see the baby through the finally happy tears and Matt’s face, pressing kisses to every inch of both of them. 

Karen inspects every inch of Georgina Grace after she’s cleaned up, and cups a hand above the baby’s head to shield her from the bright overhead lights when the infant tries to open her eyes. Matt’s hugging everyone who’s finally been allowed in the room (despite the nurses’ insistence the limit was two visitors at a time), but Karen just gazes at her daughter and knows that this was what she was meant to do.

They’re discharged a few days later, and the first night is completely sleepless. Karen sits in the plush recliner in the yellow nursery and just listens to Georgie breathe. Matt joins her, sitting on the ottoman, and they watch as the sun rises to match the color of the room.

The difficulty of parenthood makes itself known quickly afterward; they are alternatively thrilled and blessed, but also weary and short with each other. As the weeks roll by, they are less and less inclined to get up with every cry and begin to feign sleep so the other will get up to feed the baby. And just when she’s at her wits’ end, she’ll hear him singing Radiohead to a fussy girl, and goes back to sleep with the vision of him shirtless and holding Georgie against his bare chest for skin-to-skin contact to soothe both of them on the backs of her eyelids.

Matt’s in LA when Georgie starts crawling, and Karen trips over the side table trying to get to her phone and a camera to catch it. The first two minutes of a rocking ginger-haired daredevil trying to make it across the carpet to the dozens of toys strewn about are overshadowed by her mother’s inventive curses, and when she sends the file to Matt, he replies with, “Let’s hope they can edit you out of it, Kaz.”

Karen and Georgie’s giggles are the same, and mother lifts daughter up in amusement and victory. 

Their lives are now baby food and bassinettes; milestones and memories. She hasn’t been in front of a camera for nearly a year, and finds that she likes it that way. Channel Four has come back to her about a producing job, which is something she can prep from home, and she wonders at the sense of fulfillment she feels. And yet there is still a part of her — a part that will never forget — that holds her breath, that pulls her back and balances her faith with her doubt. There is still a cautiousness in her step, and she reconciles that it is as much a part of her as the toothless girl who grins up at her every day.

It feels like it’s barely the length of one of her held breaths before her and Matt’s mothers are planning an extravagant first birthday party for their beloved granddaughter. Karen goes in when Georgie wakes that morning and they sit quietly together for a moment, a sleepy baby snuggling into the safety of her mother’s arms as they watch the sun rise together.

“I still remember the first time you kicked me,” Karen says, running a hand over the soft tuft of hair on her daughter’s head. “I couldn’t believe you were real. And then there you were,” she says, rubbing Georgie’s back gently. “All red faced and screaming and looking exactly like me after I’ve had a row with your dad.” She chuckles. “It took us a long time to get to rowing,” she says quietly, thoughtfully. “I never had the courage to say anything. I don’t want that for you, darling. I want you to have the world.”

She hears Matt’s bare feet come down the hall and cross the threshold into the nursery. She doesn’t look up; she doesn’t need to, for he presses a kiss to the top of both of their heads and it’s there where everything that needs to be said is.

Georgie’s covered in cake and smothered by presents and adoration by the end of the day, and they leave the wrapping on the floor and the Christmas lights on when they collapse into bed. 

They go on their first vacation alone when she’s two, and Arthur and his wife babysit. They go to the coast and check their mobiles every ten minutes for the entire weekend. It’s still unclear years later exactly what happens whilst they’re gone, but Karen finds chocolate frosting on the underside of the kitchen cabinets for weeks after.

They finally get around to the paperwork when Georgie’s four, and she proudly escorts her mummy and daddy down the aisle, holding tightly to their hands and mouthing the ‘left, right, left, right’ instructions Matt had told her as they practiced the night before. And because she’s her parents’ daughter, she does as she’s told and stays in one spot during the ceremony, but makes sure she pirouettes so that she’s head-on to whatever camera might be snapping a picture at the moment. 

And then, just as Karen’s old makeup artist had proclaimed a hundred lifetimes ago, Georgie is ready for school, donned in her uniform and with a bright red, brand new carry-all on her back. Matt again takes a thousand photographs as Karen stares at the changing leaves wondering how they actually got here, the future she’d dreamed of but never fully envisioned like this. She looks between her daughter on the front step of their house and the man at whose side she’s been for so long that she doesn’t remember a time without him, and slides her eyes shut in gratitude, for they are the lucky ones.


End file.
